


Revenge Loves Company; Death Loves A Shining Mark

by Alannaa



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Florist AU, M/M, Necromancy AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alannaa/pseuds/Alannaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a necromancer, a powerful one. He claims to prefer the company of the deceased, if only to protect himself from the suspicions and scorn of the public. Naturally, few know of his “talents,” but all can pick him out as the florist on the edge of town whom smells faintly of embalming fluid and chitters away vapidly to any who will listen.<br/>Derek is a freshly-vested alpha werewolf with a young, upstart pack, and more baggage than most of the ghosts Stiles has met combined. He’s also got a strong interest in Stiles’ abilities; for dead men tell no tales, and Derek would rather have truths. About a lot of things.<br/>They’re both rough-hided and barreling towards a collision. The question is what shape they’ll emerge in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hi, hello there. I'm Alannaa. Some people say I'm cool. Hopefully you like this series. Some notes to chew on:  
> 1\. I don't actually garden. I did a dozen-odd agricultural projects back in high school and I've helped my grandparents in their gardens and with their citrus trees. I've read several books with agricultural themes, which overall gave me a layman's grasp of gardening. I then strengthened that with general research. The point is, I tried to make good on something I hardly know. I hope you can forgive discrepancies.  
> 2\. Necromancy is viewed very negatively mainly because necromancers were romanticized as solely using their abilities to raise undead armies for world dominance. Stiles uses his abilities differently, mainly in the vein of trying to "cure" death. He also uses his abilities like a medium would to converse with the deceased, and, where necessary, to exorcise dangerous spirits. He isn't a megalomaniac.  
> 3\. I update every Monday, though the exact time isn't guaranteed.  
> 4\. My [tumblr account](ficcyshit.tumblr.com) is always open to questions. If they relate to actual elements in the story, I will tag them so they appear [here](ficcyshit.tumblr.com/tagged/the-necrofiles) for your convenience.  
> 5\. Some of the necromantic elements of this tale are loosely based on those portrayed in the Johannes Cabal series by Jonathan L. Howard. The vocabulary is a bit advanced, but I highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys this story and would appreciate a similar tale of diabolic whimsy.  
> 6\. In this AU Stiles never lived in Beacon Hills and both of his parents are dead. Just so we're clear.

The geraniums bloom early, which is just typical form for this entire year. Climate change has made a mess of everything. The orchard bore fruit too late for the local festivals, so Stiles had to pay his normal employees to work overtime to help pick, rather than the cheaper migrant workers who, hands down, needed it more, and didn't bitch about the whole ordeal. He'd managed to sell off most in town and gave away what he couldn't eat. Aside from frost wiping out half of the peaches, it had otherwise been an unremarkable haul that season. But now the geraniums were off their mark, and seemed a bit top-heavy for it. They'd been destined for the shop, so at least they'd get some use out of it. The only question was whether anyone would actually buy them, they were so dull. If some wonky weather cost Stiles his entire crop, _someone_ would hear about it.

He straightened from where he'd just bent to thump a large bag of fertilizer on the growing pile. Sure, Stiles owned a few dozen acres, the nursery, barn, and old Victorian farmhouse that stood on it, and the most prominent flower shop in town, but that didn't mean he didn't like to help with the actual manual labor that came from owning a business. Besides, while he preferred to handle the majority of his accounting, there was a set point when his ADHD had him crawling the walls, and he just didn't care to renew his Adderall. During crucial moments, like crises, or end-of-year inventory updates, he would swallow his meds manfully and stick to the books. A bunch of flowers with bad timing didn't exactly count as a crisis.

It was a rather seasonal day, if he didn't say so himself. Not warm enough to prompt Beth Ann, the grandmotherly bat that ran the register down at the entrance of the first greenhouse to turn on the misters for the customers. The plants needed a light shower every once in a while, but a soft breeze and scudding clouds kept Stiles only sweating from actual physical exertion.

He had a trolley pulled up loaded with more fertilizer from the storage shed. Apparently, this particular brand was popular. Considering most of the customers who bought it were notorious for their vegetable gardens, and he himself used it in his own, he couldn't imagine why. Even as he continued stacking, a somewhat older woman in pastels snagged the bag he'd just placed down, grunting and staggering a bit. Stiles already had another one tossed over one shoulder, to make the trip between cart and pile easier to navigate, mainly because the "aisles" we're too narrow for the thing. He reached out and plucked the bag from her, slinging it over the same shoulder, and reaching out to steady her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned. "They're a bit heavier than they look. It didn't hurt you, did it?"

"Why, thank you, young man," she breathed, chuckling. "I didn't expect that! I'm fine."

"Good. A few of the girls pull muscles or have sore backs after restocking these. Wouldn't want a customer getting hurt," he said, removing his hand now that she was righted. "Here, I'll carry this for you. Is it just the one, or...?"

"Two, actually. I'm planning on expanding my garden. I'd like to grow my own food this year."

"Ah, good choice, then. I use this in my vegetable garden. Haven't entered the produce section of the grocery store in _months._ So, where to? Do you have a cart?"

"Oh no, I just needed the two bags. It's too early for seedlings, yet," she said airily, while threading through the snug walkways between various gardening supplies. Stiles followed at a respectable yet sociable distance, shifting the two bags once so they sat better on his shoulder. They weren't heavy yet, thankfully. He'd have to jog a mile with them before he felt like he needed to dump them. "I've still got to ready the space."

"Sure. Then it's off to checkout. Here, follow me; I know a shortcut."

He branched off down an aisle composed of a bank of hanging plants and the edge of a section of heavier building supplies meant to help spruce up and separate areas of the average American backyard. She followed along, passing forth anecdotes about her plans and what she was growing. Stiles laughed and chattered right back, occasionally responding to her ideas with suggestions and information regarding materials in stock that might help. He tried to keep the casual sales pitch to a minimum. He hated thinking of customers as just sources of income. They were, but they were also living people who appreciated talking to people who were mutually passionate, rather than just greedy. He tried to stick to personal experiences and asking questions.

About a minute later, they'd emerged from the maze to the three cash registers that stood between the rest of the nursery and the gravel parking lot. Beth Ann was the only person running checkout, since it was about one in the afternoon on a Wednesday. The Roumis-Lakeview Nursery was going through a rare slow period.

"Hey, Beth, has he showed up yet?" he called mid-approach.

"Nope, but he's still got a few minutes. Be patient, he was too eager when he filled the application. He'll show," she chided, as he set the bags on the counter and stepped back. "Ah, good afternoon ma'am, is this all?"

"For now, yes," the pastel-clad woman replied in a way that promised future patronage.

"Alright, your total's on the screen."

"I'll carry these to your car," Stiles offered, patting the bag on top. When the woman opened her mouth—to complain or thank him, he couldn't be sure—he barreled on. "No, really. It's no trouble. I'd rather help than see you fall over. So, direct me, O mistress of the vegetable patch."

He followed her to a dusty hatchback and bid her adieu before trudging back to the open end of the nearest greenhouse, where Beth Ann had been. He'd intended to have her send the job applicant back to him where he was restocking, but he found her with someone else. It was probably a customer.

"Stiles!" She waved before he could slip quietly away. He stepped closer. "This is the boy who's here for the interview."

She said boy, but when you were sixty-something like her, age was irrelevant, and everyone younger was a boy or girl, not a man or woman, and never anything so crass as a dude or chick. Said boy was actually a young man, who could have been Stiles' age—a ripe old twenty-five—or he could have been in high school. Stiles was no stranger to his own reflection, but he might spring for claiming the applicant was younger. Not bad looking, by a long shot, but Stiles was the owner of the establishment and wasn't out for a pretty face, but someone who would get as much out of the job as they could give. He'd allow himself to drool over potentially jailbait dimples _never_ or at least after he'd denied the guy the job and ruled out his libido as any of the reasons. Stiles was a professional. Professionals don't bang their employees, potential ones included.

Besides, he didn't even know if the guy swung that way.

"Hi, Isaac, right?" He offered a hand to shake. "I'm Stiles Stilinski."

"Yeah, Isaac Lahey," the guy returned. "This place looks awesome. I got lost wandering around back there."

"People tend to do that," Stiles joked. "It's kind of fun rounding them up at the end of the day and leading them back to civilization." He turned to Beth Ann again. "I'm going to take Mr. Lahey up to the house. I left a pallet of fertilizer back there by the lawn ornaments. Get Richard to deal with it, would ya?"

"Sure thing, boss." Beth Ann tipped an imaginary hat at him then went back to the paperback she'd taken to reading during slow parts of the day.

Stiles was keeping in a chortle and walking away when Isaac spoke, causing him to out and out laugh, shake his head at Beth Ann, and motion him to follow.

"Wait, _you're_ conducting the interview?"

Stiles knew why he was surprised. Here and now wearing jeans, a short-sleeved plaid button-up, and an old, stained baseball cap, he looked like a part-time employee, rather than someone trusted to conduct job interviews for the privately-owned business. Being the actual owner of said business would be a fair bit more difficult to fathom.

"Well, of course. I _am_ the boss," he joked. "Come on, the farmhouse is just around this greenhouse, down the path, and across the bridge. It's a five minute hike. We can have our chat with some lemonade in the study."

The Roumis-Lakeview Nursery and old Roumis farmstead were situated on about forty acres of land divided unevenly between open fields, and dense woods. The farm had always been small; the Roumis clan, Stiles' relatives on his mother's father's side, had opted more for growing just enough to feed themselves and make a minor profit for necessities. The fields eventually were overtaken largely by wildflowers and weeds. Meanwhile, the Lakeview family who were Stiles' relatives on his mother's mother's side, who ran a professional flower shop nearby, had a daughter and a proposal. Stiles' great-grandparents were wed, and their respective family businesses joined the bandwagon. About sixty years ago, they were combined into one mostly self-sufficient business. When Stiles' mother died, the succession of ownership passed to him. It was just good luck he already had a passion for growing things and majored in botany in college.

The actual nursery was composed of three main buildings, and a few clustered storage sheds. The first building, the one which stood closest to the lot and the road beyond, was the largest. It had once been a grand old greenhouse before it was refurbished to half-resemble a barn. The end facing the road was left as a gaping opening devoted to a manual garage door with a small service entrance to the side. During the day, the door was left up and customers could walk in and out as they pleased. At night or during poor weather, it was left closed in favor of the service entrance. Most of the first building was devoted to supplies and tools, with few floral displays.

It was flanked to either sides by its slightly smaller sisters whom divided their leafy, growing contents by climate. The south greenhouse had a koi pond to follow its tropical theme. Betwixt the greenhouses was a covered storage area and far behind were the fields where the hardier and more common flowers were grown.

A thin arm of woodland was sandwiched to the south of the nursery along the road. A dirt path wide enough for a pick-up to navigate wound through that stretch of woods and picked up on the other side of a small but serviceable bridge spanning a creek. That path lead to the actual farmhouse, which Isaac realized had to be a euphemism for "Victorian manor." The path doubled as a driveway which skimmed along the front porch and continued on until it reached the main roadway just down a tree tunnel.

The house itself really was big. And old. And rambling. It had three notable floors, and a basement, with a stately wraparound porch. Vine-strangled columns gave the façade a sturdy, upright appearance. An impressed breakfast nook and library mirrored eachother's picture windows. Trees grew dense and shaded the front of the house and the turn-about that lead off the driveway. To the back, the sky was open.

Isaac had perhaps taken Stiles' words too literally because he stayed silent the entire walk. And he had this poorly-restrained intensity about him. The guy fidgeted and tensed, his eyes darting everywhere, kind of like a dog's ears twitching. It gave Stiles the heebie jeebies which he had to fight to keep visibly contained. When he caught the younger man sniffing the air, he had to refrain from cracking a joke about decaying leaves. Stiles led Isaac to the back porch, which had a perfect view of the small clearing his ancestors had created over a century ago. A long path cut off to the left through berry brambles until it met with the edge of the fields. A long time ago, it had been a private logging road.

"Here, sit down, I'll go get us some drinks and your application," he told Isaac before disappearing behind the screen door. He left the heavier door open to let in fresh air and so he could keep up a steady monologue directed at the applicant. "I hope you like your lemonade a little bitter. I'll bring out the sugar anyway, but there's something about the tang I just can't help but love...Hmm, I know I put it here somewhere...Ahh, here it is...so your application says you're twenty-one. Not a bad age. I remember it, all the newfound freedom. My birthday was a few months after I inherited this place. I was such an asshat back then that a few of the girls had to drag me to the bar to get plastered that day." He'd been practically shouting, but tapered off to a more polite volume as he came back onto the porch with a cup in either hand and a sheaf of paper tucked under one arm. "Says a lot about what kind of boss I am that my employees can get away with getting me smashed out of my mind. Here."

Isaac took the glass, smiling warmly and taking a grateful sip. Stiles didn't miss the grimace and laughed appreciatively as he dug a diner-style sugar dispenser from one pocket and passed it over. I knew it, he told the other man conspiratorially while he sat in a wicker chair beside his companion. No one can handle my lemonade in its original form. He set his glass aside after a hearty swallow, then went back to skimming the application packet. Isaac waited silently, nervous energy pouring everywhere, enough to shame Stiles' ADHD. After a few minutes, he set it aside, and appraised Isaac, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips in scrutiny.

"You applied for a part-time job and you're still at an age where you would normally be in college. Is that the case, or is there something else consuming your time?"

"Ah, I take online courses, so, yeah, a bit," Isaac began, scratching his philtrum and looking out at the long grass. Stiles needed to mow it. "Otherwise I just hang out with my friends. But lately I could use a little extra cash, y'know?"

"Yeah, I was a barista and TA back in college," Stiles admitted fondly, trying to push the conversation along in a positive direction. "So why work at a nursery?"

"Oh, well, I like growing things. It smells nice out here, and it's quieter than working retail or fast food," Isaac said, seeming to find something fascinating in his cup. "I can relax here."

Relax? If fidgeting out of his skin the entire walk over was his version of relaxed, Stiles didn't want to _know_ how Isaac got when he was stressed.

"I see. Do you have any experience with plants?"

"Besides snagging oranges from my neighbor's trees on the way to school? None." Isaac gripped the cup, twisting it around against the skin of his palm. "But I'm strong. Real strong. And I learn things fast. And I'm good with my hands."

He fell silent, and Stiles suppressed a grin. Clearly, Isaac was nervous. Somehow Stiles had impressed some weird importance on him and he was sweating under the effort of trying to convince him. Which was sort of sad because Stiles was one of the most easy-going people in the area. And, frankly, he kind of liked Isaac. Not in the mattress mambo way, but in general. Isaac was twitchy, yeah, but when he spoke about why he wanted to work at the nursery, his voice held true notes of relief and joy. He spoke gently, like he was choosing his words carefully, but they rang genuine. When Stiles had gestured for him to follow, he hadn't missed the way the younger man flinched, or the growing desire he had to put a stop to whatever got him so riled that he flinched from Stiles' expansive gestures. If he had to put it into words, Stiles almost felt protective of him.

If this was an act, this kid was good.

"Okay, you know what? I like you. Come by tomorrow at, oh, eleven, and we'll put you to work. We can work out all the details after your shift, okay?"

Isaac, predictably enough, lit up, but a hint of disbelief colored his mannerisms. He agreed readily and thanked Stiles and chittered away about how he wouldn't regret it, Mr. Stilinski-

"Stiles. Call me Stiles, or boss," he interrupted. "'Mr. Stilinski' was my grandfather. Besides, I prefer to cling to my childhood dream of being a badass mob boss."

Stiles walked Isaac back before heading off to check on one of his personal projects. That night the nursery shut down as it normally did. A few of the staff gathered at a pub downtown to commemorate a staff member's resignation. The next day, still somewhat hungover, Stiles welcomed Isaac to his first day. His instincts proved to be spot-on and a few weeks passed.

 

The loud slamming of a door in the otherwise empty house had Stiles visibly relaxing as some of the accumulated tension fled his body through the medium of the gusty sigh he heaved. He hadn't had a guest in about a month and the anxiety had been suffocating. He pushed back from the heavy wooden desk in the center of the room, relieved for reasons stemming from distraction. He'd just been running numbers and preparing payroll and was beginning to grow antsy. Twenty five years of this shit, and it seemed spectral timing was still as unreliably reliable as ever.

He rolled his eyes as he heard the telltale dry scrape of fingernails across a wall while he made his way to the kitchen for a soon-to-be-needed beer. Clearly this spirit was a dramatic one. How very cliché. Eventually it would get enough sense together to realize he wasn't impressed and they could get down to the meat of the matter. Stiles was a grown man in his own home. A home that had been free of unwanted hauntings since the day he moved in. If this ghost wanted to chat, it would find him, or get lost. If it refused either option? Too bad. Stiles, being what he was, had ways to get what he wanted.

Right now he was thinking he already wanted that beer. Over the hiss of the vacuum seal releasing, Stiles made out voices, one shrilly familiar. The other low and alien.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Lucinda, owner of the shrill voice and one of the house's cohabitants accosted the new arrival. "You're making a racket and some of us are trying to relax and enjoy our afterlife!"

"Chill out, I'm just getting my spook on," the low voice responded harshly. "Just go do whatever it is you do and I'll leave you alone, _capiche?"_ Heavy footsteps sounded from the family room.

"Fuck no. Look buddy, knock it off now before he offs you. Like, really offs you, ghostliness and all. He's got zero tolerance for all that low-quality white noise you're pulling out of your ass."

The footsteps stopped. "'He?' Who's 'he?'"

"Jesus, what kind of dumbass are you? Do you have _any idea_ whose house this is?"

"Judging from the greenhouses out back...Some tree-hugger?" The guest guessed half-heartedly.

"No, dipshit." Lucinda's voice dropped into a barely-audible whisper. "A necromancer. You should go talk to him. Now, before he decides to drag you into a dead cat and make you dance like a marionette. He did it to the guy that boiled to death, you know. Fucker laughed while the fella screamed."

"Feh, you're full of it."

Stiles sighed, before deciding to do the sensible thing and drag the guest to him. His mind passed lightly over his intent, he snapped his fingers, and with hardly any effort, the newly-arrived ghost was standing in the middle of the kitchen. It, a man wearing a sweater vest, of all things, gasped and shivered, hunched over and breathing heavily. He stared wide-eyed at Stiles, confusion rapidly being overcome by fear when he realized Stiles' gaze was meeting his evenly, one eyebrow cocked.

"She wasn't lying, you know," he informed the ghost, in case that hadn't been made apparent. "I'm a necromancer. People– _dead_ people tell me I'm pretty good.

"So." He hopped, sliding up onto the counter behind him, guiding his movements one-handed. "Why are you here?"

"I-" The ghost straightened, swallowing. "Died. Uh."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "No shit. I mean why are you making an ass of yourself at my house? Don't you know it's rude to go bump in the night?"

The man bristled and grit his teeth, his face darkening into rage remarkably fast. Peace talks corroded in seconds as energy shivered through the air. Cabinets and drawers slammed open as things began to shake and rumble against the counters and floor. A toaster started levitating shakily as Stiles looked on, thoughtful, but unperturbed. When he felt the fit had outlived its usefulness for clarity, he brought up a hand, palm down, and moved it gently towards the floor, as if gesturing for the ghost to sit. Abruptly, everything stopped. The cabinets closed softly, their contents resettled, and the toaster set back down on the counter. Stiles nodded to himself once he was satisfied everything was as it was.

"Bit of a short fuse, huh?" He asked conversationally. "Let me guess, your death was _really unfair—"_ His voice oozed sarcasm. "—or you have anger management issues. Amirite?"

"How did you _do_ that?" He asked intelligently. Clearly the shock hadn't worn off. Just then Lucinda appeared in the entryway, and Stiles shifted his focus to her.

"And where have _you_ been, missy? It's been radio silence for a month! Have you all suddenly resolved your issues and passed on?"

"What are you talking about?" Luci settled easily into her old role of bickering with him. "I saw you just last night while you brushed your teeth. You wrote a banishment rune in toothpaste on the mirror because I kept making your towel fall off."

"Yeah, _one month ago._ And then everyone disappears and I'm stuck panicking wondering if I accidentally poured too much juice into that damn charm," Stiles retaliates hotly, because how dare she try to act dumb. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? Boris wasn't there to wish me a good day on my way out the door! For four weeks!"

"Stiles, stop exaggerating, it's only been a day," she groaned as his more dramatic tendencies took hold.

 _"Excuse me, but what the hell is going on?!"_ Douche-vest actually squeaked. Stiles had almost forgotten about him.

"Jeez, you're dumb," he muttered, grimacing before enunciating every syllable carefully, while also adding shakes of his bottle for emphasis. "I'm a necromancer. You're a ghost. I win. Comprende?"

Vest-o gaped openly. "No?"

Stiles ran a palm roughly over his face before jabbing the neck of his bottle at Luci. "Whatever. You. I want the truth. What the hell happened to you?"

She pulled a face at him. "You can just keep asking, sweetie, because I sure as fuck don't know."

He grunted, released a hissing breath then set to drinking his beer. A migraine was already catching up on him.

"So you disappear for a month, and have no memory of it?" He asked, trying to buy time to process. Or maybe he was just processing out loud. Luci didn't find it amusing.

"No, you throw me out of the bathroom and the next thing I know this fucker-" she jabbed one long index finger at the new guy "-is 'getting his spook on' in the living room—very loudly I might add." She took off in a tangent, seeming to find threatening the guy in the vest more amusing. "You're lucky I didn't use Gretta's needles on you, asshole."

Stiles chewed on the inside of his cheek as he processed. Excusing, of course, his wince. Aunt Gretta's knitting needles weren't to be taken lightly in the spiritual world. He took a drink so he wouldn't have to actually speak immediately, mainly because he wasn't sure entirely what was happening. Little did he need the excuse of cheap beer because Vest-o took the initiative to derail the discussion.

"I just- I don't understand," he began in hushed tones. "I mean, you can _see_ us?"

"Yep. He can touch and control us, too," Luci replied acerbically. "You starting to get the picture?"

"I. Maybe? I just- _how?"_ He went on.

Stiles couldn't think of a logical reason for the entire household to disappear at the same time and for so long except for a glitch in the rune he'd written. Which, shit, he'd only done to get a few minutes of peace to get ready for bed. He started imagining how the apologies might go and quickly switched over to dealing with the guest.

"Dunno, it's just something I've always been," he informed the guy, setting down his beer and making his way to the pantry. He hadn't had dinner yet and he was starting to crave some tomato soup. With grilled cheese, yum. "Like, I was the kid from that one movie. The 'I see dead people' kid? Yeah. And then I figured out having nightmares about a zombie apocalypse was a _bad_ idea so- _Jesus!"_

Stiles took a moment to steady himself where he'd landed after opening the pantry door and jumping in shock. Luci rolled her eyes, but Vest-o looked concerned. When he had repositioned himself to see into the pantry as well, he winced and looked away. It had taken a month, but Stiles had managed to forget the traumatizing experience of looking in the pantry only to find Ricky in the midst of his nightly fit. He inhaled once more for the sake of it, and held it in before reaching around Ricky's leg and snagging the can he wanted. Stiles shut the door gently behind him and busied himself at the stove. It didn't help anything to think about Ricky after seeing one of his fits. They happened every night like clockwork, and were nobody's business but his own. Thinking about it wouldn't stop it from happening, and Ricky had yet to ask Stiles to help him pass on, so he would respect the ghost's wishes. Death was a pretty big deal, and having Ricky relive his in the pantry was infinitely more preferable to pretty much any other part of the house. It wasn't exactly nice to look at, so having him somewhere out of sight was easiest.

"Why-" Vest-o began before Stiles cut him off.

"Because. He can't help it. I'm not about to turn him out because of it."

Perhaps his tone properly conveyed the "shut the hell up" he'd hoped it would. The guest fell silent and no one spoke for several minutes while Stiles stirred his soup and rummaged around in the fridge. A pan with the makings of a grilled cheese joined the pot he was nursing by the time he felt the need to break the silence.

"Look- What's your name?"

"Thomas."

Stiles turned around just to eye him incredulously. "Really? Not Tom or Tommy, just Thomas?" His stormy expression gave Stiles the answer he needed. "Okay, Thomas it is. Look, Thomas, what Luci said was true. About the boiled guy. I'm not exactly someone you want to mess with. _But_ —big 'but,' here—I'm not heartless. There are others who stay here and they're welcome to as long as they don't act out. All that cliché moaning, rattling chains, footsteps—the whole nine yards—just pisses me off. In return for the company, I try to help them move on. Some prefer to stay, but most go. If you promise to follow house rules, you can become a guest here for as long as you want."

He brought down the heat to a simmer and went to open his second beer of the evening. This time, he went to recline in one of the chairs set around the small table shoved into the breakfast nook. He nudged one across from him out so Thomas could sit down without passing through anything. Thomas took the proffered seat with some measured concern but Stiles didn't say anything about it.

"So? Would you like to loaf around here for a bit? You might like it."

"What are the house rules?" Thomas' eyes took on a hard quality.

"Simple, really," Stiles listed them off with a gentle tilt of his nearly-full beer. "None of the spooky special effects, especially not when there's living company over. You respect my privacy, I respect yours. Uh, mainly the idea is not to be a dick. Ask yourself if what you're thinking of doing might annoy me, and if it will, just don't. It's really not worth it."

Thomas seemed to need a moment to mull it over. Stiles stood again, this time to take the sandwich off the stove. He moved to toss the empty can away before noticing the recycle bin was almost overflowing. "So? We cool?"

"Fine, I'll stick around for a bit," Thomas agreed grudgingly.

"Cool, watch the soup for a minute. I'm gonna go take out the trash."

The night was one of those balmy ones that always followed hot days. A discordant symphony of crickets sang about the ambient temperature as Stiles skirted the house with the full bin. He thought back on the day, remembering almost too late that tomorrow was the collection day for recycling. He emptied the smaller bin into the larger blue one before maneuvering it around onto it's wheels, and trundling down the driveway towards the road. He passed his jeep where it was parked in the turn-about and smiled fondly. Stiles loved that jeep dearly and still got little giddy shivers whenever he saw it. Like he was reliving the moment he found out it was his.

His feet moved confidently as he followed the driveway through the dark. Under the trees, it was almost black, but he knew what he was doing. This was familiar, muscle memory. Still, seasoned veteran that he was, he still found the looming darkness of the surrounding foliage unnerving from time to time. Not for the first time he wished he'd gone through with the old pipe dream he'd had of lining the drive with lights. Maybe twinkling ones, to resemble fireflies. He could still do it. Maybe take a day over the weekend to set it up.

He was halfway back up the driveway, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, when he heard a very loud, very green snap coming from his right, off in the trees. Stiles immediately stopped in favor of rolling all his weight to one leg and letting his head fall back so his next words were addressed to the canopy.

"Holy god, what _now?"_ He let his gaze drop and draw in the direction of the noise, wishing he'd brought his phone or at least a pen light. He only used the former for business calls and no one called him this late so he'd felt confident enough to leave it behind. But still, it was too dark to see, and what if it was a bear or a cougar that had made that noise? Shouldn't Stiles have the privilege of getting a good look at his killer?

Except, maybe not.

There, something like fifty feet away, a pair of glowing yellow eyes stared back at him from near the ground. Stiles drew in a sharp breath and watched as the eyes flickered, a blink, and then _rose._ When they stopped, they were about five or six feet off the ground, and locked steadily on him. Now that he wasn't moving, he was able to pick up a few soft scuffs before a second pair of yellow eyes joined the first, this one higher.

Whatever they were, they weren't human, but they weren't normal animals. The eyes, when he got over the whole glowiness, and that color, were surprisingly similar to a human's, though. Stiles had seen some abnormal shit in his time, but he'd never quite come across something like this. The closest thing had been a particularly derailed spirit of a middle-aged guy who shapeshifted into a wolf dog whenever angry. He'd always sported electric blue eyes and a pretty hefty case of revenge-fueled psychosis. His soul had been weak or broken, which led to him being see-through in every kind of light, and eventually disappearing literally piece by piece. Now that he'd peered down memory lane, Stiles was drawing a lot of similarities.

If these things were anywhere near as loco as the other guy, he should probably make some sort of effort to run. Yeah, running would be good since he wasn't entirely sure what he could do to defend himself.

At the somewhat familiar low rumble he recognized as the noise the other guy made when he growled, Stiles made up his mind. "Not again," he whined, before taking off toward the house.

He was running blind part of the way, but within seconds he drew close enough to glimpse the lights from within. Stiles didn't hear any footfalls following, but he knew better than to relax, and just barreled on ahead, head held low to watch his feet. He had a hunch these things, whatever they were—hellhounds?—didn't make much noise when moving. He also had a hunch they were faster than humans, so his best option would be to run his little heart out and try to follow his instincts.

Pain, bright and sharp, exploded in his head, then spread to his jaw, neck and shoulders, before being compounded by similar pain spreading across his front. He barely had time to register jerking to a stop when he lost track of everything. All there was left was darkness that put his forest at night to shame, and pain. Throbbing, pounding pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hokay! I have about 18,700 words of this already typed, so I should be good for the next three chapters or so, but be patient. I have a lot going on and I might fall behind somewhere down the line.
> 
> Hopefully not.


	2. New Neighbors

"Jeez, he really hit it hard. Do you think he'll wake up soon?"

"I don't know. Shouldn't he have already?"

"Don't ask me, _you're_ the one that wants to be a doctor. What do you think?"

"A _vet._ I want to be a vet. There's a huge difference."

"Whatever. He's been out a while. Shouldn't we wake him?"

"Maybe? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"I'm majoring in psychology. How the fuck should I know?"

"I don't know! I just remember that that's what people do in movies. Would you calm down? He'll wake up and see you like that and _then_ what? Derek's gonna kill you is what!"

"No he's not. I'm his favorite."

"Bull. You're his oldest, not his favorite."

"Better than being Peter's."

Peter? Something about that name was familiar. Stiles couldn't quite place it. Just like he couldn't quite place the voice who'd uttered it. Familiar, but difficult to grasp. A sharp throb flushed from his crown to his knees, eliciting a low groan. As soon as it began, he regretted it. It hurt. Maybe it was the vibrations in his chest that did it. Oh who the fuck cares? It hurt, no need to puzzle over the why.

Yeah he was just running, no big deal. But why was he running at night? Well, he'd been putting out the trash. But why? Something about a can and it being full. Oh yeah, soup. Soup. Aww man, now he was hungry on top of aching. Wait, go back to the beginning. Why was he running? He'd put the trash out, no problem. Was it the soup? No, couldn't be because he'd set it to simmer and it still had a good ten minutes on it when he stepped outside. Plus that new guy was watching it. Tim? Tommy? Yeah, Tommy or some shit. So why was he running? Must have been something on the way back. He remembered hearing something and-

Eyes. Glowing, yellow ones.

Stiles' eyes shot open while he gasped. His heart pounded with some weird mix of fear and determination. Maybe some surprise, too. He pushed himself upright and began scrambling back with his heels, hands reaching back to steady himself when he hit something solid but warm and with the gentle give of muscle. Instead of a manly curse or even a respectably full-bodied shriek, he inhaled so sharply, he made a choking noise. He stopped, and in the ensuing stillness he finally realized someone was talking to him.

"Whoa, Stiles, calm down!"

_How the f-_ Stiles followed the sound of the voice to come face to face with none other than the new part-timer. Isaac Lahey. Yeah. Isaac who was sitting alarmingly close and whose concerned expression Stiles could still barely make out.

"Isaac? What-"

"How do you feel? We came by to drop off something and found you on the ground here. Are you hurt?"

Hurt? Well...yes. Fuck yes. Now that he remembered it over the gradually lowering panic, yes he did. Ow. _Ow,_ he did a lot, apparently. Why...? Oh yeah, because of, well, he wasn't sure. Stiles looked up ahead and realized he was looking at the pitted trunk of an oak. So maybe he'd run into it? It still left the problem of the eyes and needing to get away. Wait, "we?"

"'We?'" he asked Isaac.

"Yeah, me and Scott who's standing right behind you," Isaac replied, to which Stiles promptly craned his head back as far as possible to get a glimpse of Scott.

"Hiya," Stiles greeted the guy, because even confused Stiles had manners. Upside down, the dark-haired dude nodded back.

Isaac continued talking, oblivious. "He's one of the friends I told you about. The ones I hang out with, y'know, during my free time. We're on our way to meet up with some people and I wanted to stop by and drop off some cookies for you on our way." He produced a plastic container from god knows where with a flourish. "Tada!"

"I- Thanks?" Stiles merely stared at the container. Either he had a concussion, or he just didn't get it. "Uh, why?"

"Why? Why what? Why give you cookies?"

"Umm." There was probably a specific way to answer that, but he seemed to be reverting to basic cognizance. "Yes?"

"I think he hit his head pretty hard," Scott said, concerned. "Maybe he's concussed."

"You might be right. C'mon, we should at least get him inside. Maybe it will help."

"Maybe he's sitting right here and can hear every word you're saying," Stiles blurted with a bit of rancor. Still, he stood. Or at least tried to. "Ow, fuck."

Very unexpectedly, two hands hooked into his armpits from behind and hauled him upright with uncanny ease. Stiles took a moment to wince from his head, then another to steady himself. A hand stayed on his shoulder through it all, even after he'd nodded that he was fine and skirted around the oak in the direction of the house.

Stiles led the way up the porch and inside, loudly asking the others if he could get them anything, as a warning to the rest of the household, and then playing it off as general exuberance. Isaac knew him as welcoming, so it was best to maintain appearances. Both asked for water, which Stiles went into the kitchen to get. They both came running when he swore under his breath  after seeing Thomas sitting calmly at the table and ignoring the pot. He made discreet faces in the direction of the breakfast nook and went to tend to the boiling pot of soup. Maybe he'd just spoken louder than he intended.

In all the excitement—Stiles kept nervously glancing out the windows expecting to catch a glimpse of those eyes—he'd forgotten he had a brand new houseguest. Neither of the guys sat in the chair he occupied, thank god, but he was still way too close for comfort. Stiles moved the pot to a cold burner to cool, set his guests up with their drinks, and began to have his way with a new beer. He opted for sitting on the sill of one of the picture windows in the nook, specifically the one that allowed him to look straight ahead and purvey the driveway where the incident had occurred. If he made to sit at the table, it might draw attention if he avoided the chair Thomas occupied.

Stiles forced himself to relax and play good host by chatting up the house and family business, and grilling Scott about his life. Before he could get to the third topic, though, he had a goal. There was an art to this. One had to be subtle for one audience, but obvious to another. He worked up a message meant for Thomas and slipped into a funny little story about his ancestors. Thomas finally got the message, which was to get the hell out and go find Lucinda, and he left. Stiles conveniently took the opportunity to stand and get refills before taking up the newly unoccupied chair. Scott smiled at him, a rather nice smile, kind of eager and excited, but also closeted, secret.

Stiles found out a lot about Scott. He was in college like Isaac but in his senior year. He was studying to be a veterinarian downstate, and he was madly in love with some girl named Allison who he wasn't allowed to see. "Like, Romeo and Juliet levels of forbidden romance," according to Isaac. Stiles found out Scott's parents were separated, and his mother was a nurse. He also discovered Isaac's parents were dead. He learned lighter, nicer things, such as that both of them were comic book hero fanboys, and they each liked to play video games and had even attended high school together, both playing first string lacrosse. What a coincidence because Stiles had played lacrosse in high school, too. By the end of his beer, Stiles had decided he very much liked these two. They were easily friend material. Possibly even best friend material.

The reason why he couldn't get close to them chose then to appear in the kitchen, directly in his line of sight. Scott, beside him, shifted. Stiles took it as his cue to remind them of their plans and to send them out the door with a warning to be careful.

"We'll keep a sharp eye out for rogue trees," Isaac promised lightly. "See you tomorrow, boss."

Stiles laughed, waved, and shut the door with a sigh. He wasn't given long to settle himself; Bradley, an older gentleman whose left leg faded out below the knee, spoke over his shoulder.

"Their energy is odd, wrong," he observed drily. "You should keep your distance."

"What, because they're alive?" Stiles meant the jab to be offhanded. He went back to reheat his meal quickly, knowing the ghost would follow. Bradley rarely had something to say, so when he felt the need to chat, he usually dragged it out until the path of the conversation was impossible to see anymore.

Bradley, of course, sniffed unappreciatively at the dry slight and forged on. "No, because they seem abnormal. There's something inhuman about them. They're hiding something."

Stiles scoffed. "Relax, you're getting paranoid. The one, Isaac, works for me. That's all it is. It's not like I'm about to become best friends with an employee. Besides, the living are so annoying."

"So you say."

"Yeah, I do. Because its easier to deal with you guys, who actually know what I am. It's kind of hard to hold a decent conversation when confederate soldiers just show up out of the blue. Especially when you're the only one who can see them."

Bradley didn't apologize. Instead, he disappeared with a disgruntled huff. Stiles shook his head, but didn't bother to call the old soldier back. It wouldn't do any good. Instead, he went to go accost Thomas.

 

The next day, with the sun high in the sky and cutting through the canopy to dapple the ground, Stiles went to go retrieve the recycling bin. Lucinda tagged along since he'd told her about the incident from that night. They spent the whole walk discussing the shape-shifting ghost whose name escaped them. Heading to the road, he scrutinized the side of the driveway where he'd seen the eyes. On the way back, he abandoned the bin briefly to have a closer look. Stiles picked through the lush underbrush in a wide arc, searching for any sign something had been there. It was Luci who found the footprints, humanoid, only sharper, hidden by a sea of ferns. They tried to trace the trail, but lost it before they could wander far. Stiles took a picture on his phone, then retrieved the bin and went about the rest of his day.

A few days passed, spent in new and old exploits. Stiles was an accomplished researcher. He had to be, with what he was and paranormal research was one of the few things that kept him eagerly in his seat. In the evenings he would divide his time with running a business and looking for anything he could on whatever it was that was out there. He set a few ghosts to watching and patrolling the woods in a loose circle around the house, Thomas being one such unfortunate. Stiles stayed the course with grim determination as reports of gouges on trees and footprints, some of them clad in shoes piled up. He had no idea what had moved into the area, but he wasn't about to give up. When the others found actual tufts of hair, he though he was getting somewhere, but no one had a decent clue what it belonged to or how to deal with it if it became a threat.

That was the one thing that these things hadn't become. Stiles had run the time on the driveway, but he hadn't heard them give chase. If anything, they seemed to have vanished as soon as he turned away for the safety of the house. The blue-eyed ghost, whom he now suspected had been one of these things, was the only indicator he had that the intruders were violent. Stiles knew better than anyone that death warped a soul, made weird parallels and manipulated perspectives. The blue-eyed ghost had been psycho with anger and grief, which was probably the only reason he had lashed out. The man had transformed into a wolf dog, for god's sake. All signs pointed to derangement.

What kind of life do you have to live where your way of coping is transforming into a big furry monster, anyway? Monster...

Stiles dropped his burger like it had burned him and bolted upstairs to the study where his desktop and laptop both were. Oftentimes the latter would make trips with him into town or throughout the rest of the house, but he'd been working before he'd taken a break to fix himself dinner. He snatched up the thing and bolted back into the living room before his food could even think of getting cold. Once there he settled and pulled up the encoded database he kept on the hard drive. Technically this was the travel copy, backed up from the desktop, but only the form it came in was different. Stiles kept histories and lore about the great and magical world around him, which had taken him literally ages to transcribe, scan, and streamline until it held a considerably lower "bullshit percentage." It had been predictably useless so far in the investigation, but he had a strong hunch that had more to do with his searching for the wrong things than content insufficiencies.

Glowing eyes were both hoaky, and unexpectedly common in the "mythical" world. Over two hundred entries alone had popped up when he searched for glowing eyes. Wolves were also weirdly common, but only two entries appeared when he paired the queries. The first belonged to hedge witches, which Stiles ruled out after he realized modern ones were very cleanly and generally non-violent. Plus, the eyes he'd seen had been fairly high off the ground. A woman that height would be rare. Two who happened to both be hedge witches would be borderline insane. While Stiles didn't have a lot of personal experience to draw from, he was operating under the hunch that hedge witches were all female, and so were ruled out by Blue Eyes in fact being a dude.

That left entry two: lycans, more commonly known as werewolves. Stiles poured over it with rapt focus, forgetting the burger altogether. Unsurprisingly, Hollywood was glaringly incorrect regarding their lore. Surprisingly, however, was how well the pieces fit. Wolves' rank and bloodlines were often identified by the color their eyes turned during shifts, at night, and especially during full moons. They were able to shift to their more lupine forms at will, rather than once a month as many incorrectly believed. Their shifts were most commonly tied to bursts of adrenaline, which they learned to control as they grew older and more experienced. The lycan race was a warlike one, but was also capable of complex social hierarchies and actual domesticity. They lived largely in harmony with humans, but bore arms when necessary to defend their own and their territory. There was more about packs and alphas and senses, but Stiles skimmed down until he found weaknesses. In that regard, wolves were eerily mundane. Aconite, toxic menace that it was, was poisonous to them. Silver didn't actually slow them down so much as it irritated them. They were incapable of acting against rowan, like many things, and they could actually be killed traditionally. The problem with traditional ways was that wolves in a pack healed faster, worked together, and provided a heavier offensive. They were naturally resilient, and their advanced healing factor made it difficult to kill them without the use of natural agents. But, with repeated merciless application of violence, results could be had.

Brilliant, so he had at least two werewolves stalking around his property with unknown motives and little to no way to deal with the problem if they changed their mind on whatever non-violent angle they were working here. Stiles had a gun, sure. Hell, he had three. His dad had made it a goal that Stiles learn how to shoot multiple classes of firearms, and he'd actually insisted that his son arm himself accordingly while on his death bed. He'd continued to insist moments after he died when he realized what his son had said about his abilities was true and that Stiles could see and interact with him. No son of his was going to rely solely on hocus pocus for defense. Long story short, Stiles had guns and the experience and skill to use them with deadly precision. They would be less effective without the added bite of aconite, unfortunately, so he couldn't only rely on them.

Thankfully living in solitude had had some benefits. Stiles, besides discovering the extent of his abilities, learned to use them well. He was a necromancer, certainly, but he was also a powerful mage and spent much of his time in the past mastering the basics and many intermediary magics, if only to escape boredom.

Most of the house was marked and runed to defend. A barrier was wound into the framework and foundation, which remained inert until triggered by strong, violent ill-intent. The same went for the nursery and the boutique downtown. Even his jeep, the pickup, and the atv were similarly protected. He lived with the general fear that one day something would learn about his abilities and come to wipe him from the world, so a few precautions had been welcome.

Before he could really set to planning additional contingencies, a very loud crash from upstairs halted his thoughts. Thomas materialized uncomfortably close as he stood to go retrieve one of the guns he kept concealed in the house. So what if he was a little trigger-happy. This was a high-risk situation. It would continue to be until he determined the wolves weren't a threat or—more likely—that they were gone.

"It's that one dude. The skinny one? Ricky? Yeah," Thomas beat him to the punch. "Look, he's having a conniption or something. Lucinda sent me to get you."

Stiles swore before ascending the stairs and following his ears to one of the guest bedrooms. There, things around the room vibrated with competing energies. Lucinda stood in the center of the room, rigid and glaring at Ricky, whom clutched at his head and was perched on a wardrobe. Shards of porcelain and slowly-wilting flowers littered the floor near one bedside table. Clearly Ricky had started breaking things but Lucinda had caught him early enough to put a slipping clamp on things. Stiles let his intent and energy pour out enough to replace Lucinda's worsening grasp on the situation with his iron-tight hold. Ricky cried out once, broken, while Luci merely sagged where she stood. He strode into the room quickly, making a beeline for Ricky.

"Ricky, man," he began softly, hands planted on his hips. "What happened? You were doing so well this whole time."

"It's- Stiles, I can _hear_ them again. They won't stop. I keep telling them to but they won't."

"Are they saying the usual?"

"Ye- _no I'm not,_ shut up!"

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

Ricky's only response was a whimper. Stiles heart twinged for what the ghost had to be enduring. He'd lived an unpleasant life involving a distant father, abusive step mother, and addict mother. He'd gotten addicted to hard drugs and spiraled into depression so deep that he wound up committing suicide by rope. Every night he relived the ordeal as the consequence of his actions, only to awake the next morning to repeat the cycle. But that sort of ending made for horrific scars which led to him enduring random psychotic episodes where his guilt would be represented by the voices of his kin accusing him of weakness among other things. It was always traumatic and Stiles didn't really know how best to solve it, except with distractions. Loud distractions. Like blasting music or making Ricky do something that would occupy his thoughts.

Sometimes the best way to deal with it was to go for a drive and bicker it out with the voices. Times like right now, Stiles opted for other methods. He wrapped his energy around himself like a thin membrane and reached out to Ricky. The power fed through his skin allowed him to grip Ricky without passing through him. He tugged the ghost firmly back onto the floor, then led him to the bed and put an arm around him, concentrating on regulating the flow of energy. Passing through a spirit was miserable for all involved, and now was the worst time for it to happen accidentally. Stiles fell asleep there, talking Ricky down from his anxiety into the wee hours. All thoughts of werewolves stayed tucked at the back of his mind until the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering, Ricky is actually someone from my own extended family. His story is completely true(except for the whole ghost part) and he died in 2012. This is my way of honoring him. He was a fucking great older brother.  
> As a warning, Stiles meeting the packisn't going to be the final climax of this story. Don't hold your breath.  
>  **Important! This fic was originally named "Popping Daisies" but then I misplaced that particular piece of brainstorming. Should I restore it to its original title?**  
>  See you next Monday!


	3. So It Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially a few days behind, and this chapter is admittedly a bit short. I'm so sorry. I finally made the decision to write this chapter to help transitions in future chapters on Thursday, but last weekend was the biggest festival of the year for my immediate area so I was balancing social and public obligations(I swear to god moving to your mother's small hometown must be the secret to infamy). Then on Sunday was my Uncle/Godfather's birthday. And then on Monday my mother called me sobbing about how she had had to put my dog down on the other side of the country. So, I spent the night drinking and distracting myself, and I slipped up on my post schedule. I expect the next chapter, since it only needs some basic revisions, will be posted in a timely fashion. I'll do my best to warn you in the future of delays.

It took two days of spectral patrols and pouring over every scrap of printed information he could find to begin to get a proper picture of what was going on, much less how to handle it.

Stiles was sitting on a pretty package of land. In total it was forty acres, and about sixty five percent was clogged with deep, dark, old forest land. The sort of forest land that was broken into hillocks and shallow ravines, with ancient, thick-boughed trees, and more than its fair share of wildlife. Most activity was concentrated into the far southwestern arm of it, budging up against the highway, which left the majority of the north untouched. It was a shame Stiles wasn't sociable or he might have reason to drive back into the woods to the old cabin for a night spent "roughing it" with friends. While technically still being in his own backyard, it is anything but tame at the cabin, and short camping expeditions had been something he'd enjoyed as a child. However, as socialization held such horrific potential, the cabin had been reclaimed by nature. Stiles still goes up there regularly to check the borders of his land and make sure he kept up with what seemed to have crossed onto it, but he hadn't recently.

Thus when he sent Bradley out there with a fearful ghost by the name of Janine that the elder gentleman thought was vapid but was too well-bred to ever actually tell her, he honestly only intended to get his delicious passive-aggressive revenge for the pessimistic conversation the other night. So, when the bitter old soldier reported in about more tracks looping around the far border and turning back in to the center of the property, it came as a confusing surprise. In fact, he'd honestly expected most of the werewolves' activity to be concentrated on the house and nursery. But even the far southern edge of the property yielded sightings and tracks. It seemed these wolves were covering every part of the property.

Stiles was able to estimate the enemy's numbers being somewhere between half a dozen, and a full dozen based on sightings and tracks. He was able to build up painfully brief profiles of the wolves based on relative height and distinguishing features like eye color. One of them, he knew, had long, wavy blonde hair that swished when she ran. Another was apparently big and bald, while the others seemed to range from respectable haircuts to shaggy heads of hair and rangy to bulky body types. Every time, though, his tenants reported individuals with blue and yellow eyes; their alpha was remaining elusive.

Stiles wasn't an idiot. He knew he couldn't hope to last against even one werewolf in a brawl, let alone a pack. He couldn't even be sure this was most of this pack. For all he knew, the handful of wolves haunting his land were just a fraction of their full force. Of course, he spent several minutes bickering with himself over whether a pack _that_ large would hesitate to attack a lone necromancer. He couldn't afford to rule anything out in such an unfamiliar situation, but half of him made some very good points.

There was also the fact that the werewolves hardly seemed to notice the ghosts. When they did, they mostly just moved away quickly, or just outright ignored them. Since he's certain werewolves can see spirits, it makes Stiles wonder what the hell it means.

It's because he doesn't know much of anything about this pack that he is having so much trouble deciding on a course of action. Without understanding their motive, he can't anticipate or adapt. And with the threat of danger looming whenever he thinks to leave the protection of his wards, the most he has to fall back on are ethereal proponents who are all leery of crossing the property line and can't keep up with the wolves very well. The best way to get information would be capturing a wolf and weeding it out of them, but since he doesn't know their identities, he can only try to pull something like that off while they're stalking him. Call Stiles crazy but that sounds risky as fuck.

Besides, how do you even catch a werewolf?

Stiles was still pondering the answer to that question on the third day, out in his vegetable garden tucked around the far Western side of the house. It's going to be summer soon, so if he wants to have tomatoes by next fall, he needs to get them settled in. He's been so occupied with all this supernatural crap that the poor strawberries had begun to get choked up by weeds, so naturally he decided to take the afternoon off and tend to his garden. Most devoted gardeners tend to bring their business to the nursery by two, and in the afternoon the majority of the customers are there for flowers, especially some of the rarer or even custom shoots they're somewhat famous for. They won't need him for much of anything, since it's borderline mandatory for all the staff to be able to create and wrap a professional bouquet. Even the shut-ins who work in the staff-only sections of the smaller greenhouses.

He'll probably go inside and lose himself in a few hours of mindless gaming when he's done. Maybe he'll bother to go online and join a match or two. Just because he's a little too clumsy to have the greatest fine motor control doesn't mean he won't enjoy having opponents that don't do the same scripted sequence of things every time.

But for now he busies himself with transplanting sprouts into the cool, dark dirt, and voices his thoughts out loud to his ooky-spooky audience.

"So how _am_ I supposed to catch a werewolf?"

"You could try tying it up? With, like a trap?" Luci's lounging on one of the long lawn chairs. Stiles still doesn't see the point of sitting when she can _float_.

"You do remember they're, like, probably a good ten times stronger than me, right?"

"Oh yeah," she sits back, squinting at the ceiling of the porch.

"Did you say once that your magic didn't rely on your physical strength?" Dennis, a somewhat mousy man wearing cashmere stained with blood—because we can't all have a happy marriage—interjects. He's chilling out against the banister. It's sort of his "spot."

"Yeah." Stiles can see where this is going.

"So can't you just, I don't know, magic circle one of them?"

Lindsay, who died when she was fifteen in a car accident the same year Stiles graduated high school, is physically the youngest ghost on the property. Normally Stiles pays a lot of attention to kids and teens, because he figures they deserve to get to nirvana as fast as possible, but she's been stubbornly refusing to cooperate, and he can't stomach forcing her to pass on if she really doesn't want to. She also participated in the ghostly gossip circle. She shot Dennis a dirty look and practically sneered, "Did you really just suggest he 'magic circle' one?"

"Oh god, here it goes again." Sam is a study in black, baggy clothing. He died sometime during his early twenties, but whenever Stiles bugs him about it, he just gets this guilty look and clams the hell up. He's still pretty new, though, so Stiles is okay with slowly wheedling the whole story out of him with dirt on Lindsay, or the occasional threat to tell her about his crush on her.

" _What_ was that?" her voice dripped malice, but their bickering was hardly new.

"I _said_ -"

" _Anyway,_ " Stiles spoke up before they could really get going. It's not like they can really interact with physical objects that well but if they're going to sit around and taunt him from the shade while he sweats and toils away, then they're at least going to put their brains to his use. It's only fair. "I'd gladly use a binding spell if I knew any. Most of the barriers I learned are to keep stuff out, not hold it in. And the ones I do know that do anything close were designed to work on, well, spooks. Malicious spirits, demonic entities, all that."

"So demons are real, too?" Dennis asks, seeming surprised. And maybe faintly cowed.

"As far as I can tell," Stiles settled back on his haunches, expecting to have to explain in more detail. He always has to monitor what he explains to the dearly, since knowledge is power and some of these guys can't handle it, but he tries to be as vague as possible. "That kind of intent doesn't just happen, it's gotta fester. And there's a pretty hefty level of effort thrown into keeping them from sprouting willy-nilly or getting their demon on for very long." Stiles rested his hands on his thighs, balancing carefully so as not to smudge his pants. Dust was one thing, but fresh soil was _damp_ and _cold_ and generally not fun to get soaked into fabric, especially every time he'd take a step. "Like, people got so worked up about it that there are actual people trained for this, that others can call in. Unfortunately they all live in Vatican City or the Himalayas or something, so it's not always easy to get their help." He shrugged and glanced down, because it wasn't his fault all the specialists were picky about location. "But, hey, at least the technique is really well known, y'know, in case of emergency. Just, if you got something that evil on your hands and haven't the foggiest about how to kill it, go watch a possession flick. Like the Last Exorcism or some shit. And maybe go to church." He spotted a weed he'd missed, and shifted forward to deal with it barehanded, voice lowering as his air supply was retarded in the process. "Believe me, you'll be wanting to pray after the fact. If I never have to deal with one, it will still be too many. If that makes sense?"

Their expressions indicated that once he started rambling he either outstripped them, or they got bored. At least that was consistent.

"Wait," Luci held up a commanding hand, her voice carefully incredulous. "Did you just say there are exorcists in the Himalayas?"

Stiles could feel a shiver of mildly embarrassed heat running from his collar to his navel. "Yeah? Or something like that. It's kind of a big thing over in Asia."

"So how did you go from Vatican City to the Himalayas?" she asked in a tone that made his temperature rise a little more.

"Well this is fascinating, _really_ ," Dennis interrupted. "But maybe it can wait until another time."

"Ah, yep," Stiles nodded vigorously. "Definitely what he said."

"Hear, hear." Lindsay rolled her eyes in exaggerated fashion.

Stiles twisted around to find his trowel. "So," he prompted before Luci could protest the subject change. "Unless I want to make them safe from harm, I don't think magic is going to help."

"You could force them to stay in the barrier with another threat," Sam suggested at the same time Lindsay popped up with "What about that cool thing you did with that candelabra?"

He wasn't turned to them, but he might as well be with how accurately he predicted their reactions to being talked-over. It involved some pretty unnecessary names.

Stiles located the errant tool quickly enough to use it to gesture with. "Whoa, there, one at a time. Sam, go."

He didn't bother to watch, just went back to transferring more infant plants while the guy explained, "Well, you could surround them with something deadly and put up a barrier. Then you threaten to take it down to make them squeal."

"What, like a really messed up version of The Floor Is Lava?"

"Yeah, kinda," Sam shifted back so he was leaning against Lindsay.

"Get off me, you moron," she bit out, shoving him hard.

"Moron? Why am I a moron?" he demanded, using his superior size to bear down on her efforts.

"You just are!" she grunted, sagging under his weight. "That's such a dumb idea."

"No it's not!" Sam insisted. "Stiles, tell her it's a good idea!"

"Actually," Stiles sat back a bit, balancing on his heels and drawing the back of his arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat beading there and threatening to seep into his eyes. Incessant bickering aside, their flirting was adorably unorthodox. Not that he'd ever tell them that. "You're both a little right. It's a good idea, but I don't think I have anything in my arsenal to threaten them with. I don't do elements, remember?"

"But you have those creepy familiars," Dennis reminded him.

Stiles frowned. They weren't creepy. Creepy was the man's ex-wife. Although with a hacksaw she was just plain terrifying. "I only have so many, and I can't even control them all at once."

" _Again,_ gonna point out magical candelabras. Seriously, people."

"Nope." Stiles remembered that incident all too well. The most he could say happened was that he found out he didn't just have a grip on the kinetic energy ghosts could unleash on unsuspecting furniture. He had favored his left side for weeks after that fiasco. "That time was a fluke. I have no idea what happened."

"Aww, come on," she whined. "I bet you could figure it out."

Stiles sighed, shaking his head. "Thanks for the help guys, but I'll just figure something out."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam waved him off. "Hey, can anyone else hear that?"

"Hear what?" Stiles asked, just as Lucinda cocked her head, a concentrative frown on her face. 

"You mean that weird ringing sound?" she asked.

"I hear it too," Dennis admitted.

"Yeah," Lindsay breathed.

Then, as if on cue, they all sat up and looked right toward the field edging along the back of the house. Stiles strained to hear whatever it was they were reacting to, but he didn't hear anything except the birds and the wind through the canopy. He craned his head back to peer around a shrub, but couldn't see anything unusual between them and the far edge of the space.

"The hell-?" he started to say, when a sedan barged up the driveway. After the intense silence, the rumble of the engine nearly gave him a heart attack.

He groaned, then powered to his feet and brushed himself down with sharp, staccato pats. It didn't get any reaction from the others, so he huffed and stepped to the outer edge of the garden to see who had come calling that had such monumentally bad timing. The sedan, a bright red, blocky thing was stopped level with the front doors. It wasn't one Stiles recognized, though, and the stress of the last week had him wishing for any weapon other than his fists. Instead, he rushed through his mental list of spells, and picked out the easiest, quickest barrier he could make. As Stiles watched, he tensed, ready for whenever the threat came. After an intense moment of scrutiny, the sedan's taillights flickered and it backed up.

Instead of an attack like he half-expected, the window rolled down and a blonde bombshell smiled out at him. Sure, her eyelids were a little too heavily-lidded, and the smile was somewhat off, but he could hardly pull a coherent thought together. She was like anxiety attack-inducing levels of attractive.

 _My poor, bisexual heart,_ Stiles thought, relaxing a bit. Clearly a pretty girl like her wasn't a furry monster with an appetite for human hearts. Yes, Supernatural references. Definitely a good headspace to be in.

"Can I help you?" he meant it to be polite, but wouldn't be surprised if it came off solicitous.

"Hi!" she gushed, showing her teeth in a dazzling grin that quickly dissolved into a pout. "I think I'm a little lost. Do you happen to know how to get to the Roumis-Lakeview nursery?"

"You're in luck," her grin was infectious. "I'm actually the owner."

"Wow really?" she asked. He preened a little at the delight she didn't hide

"The one and only," and, okay, maybe he puffed out his chest a little bit, but she was practically falling into his hands. With all the veritable eye-fucking, leering and masterful social maneuvering, he was starting to get the impression she was a domineering bedfellow. He wasn't entirely sure if it was a turn on, but his dick was curious, at least.

"And do you live here?" one toned arm stuck out the window to point a single finger at the ground.

"Well, I do own the surrounding area."

"Cool! Have you lived here long?"

Oh no, Stiles actually hated explaining how he came to own the land. It was usually awkward and sobering and a part of him wanted to lie about this. But he was too stupid to be any more dishonest than necessary, so he girded himself and went for it.

"Uh, well my grandparents used to own the place, until they passed away," he moved closer. "So, I've been here the last five years."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she cooed, pressing a hand to her chest in that way women did when they heard bad news.

"Nah, it's fine," he gestured vaguely at her, hoping to convey how fine it was.

The truth was it wasn't, not really. His grandparents had been a sanctuary from the grief of his mom's death, though he had initially been too devastated to see it. They became a vital support to him when his dad had died, though. And then they'd slipped out of his grasp so close to the end of his junior year of college.

Yeah, his life sucked.

But he was dealing with it, or at least he was busy enough living it what he didn't dwell too often on it. Besides, none of this was something he'd mention on the date he was currently trying to score.

 _Get your head out if your ass, Stiles,_ he told himself.

"Well, I'm actually pretty new to the area," the woman was clearly trying to change the subject. "I just moved here, and I keep getting turned around. Its the roads. I'm used to a grid system, not old game trails."

"I know what you mean." To avoid getting leftover dirt smeared on his shirt, Stiles crossed his arms. "I used to live in the city. Every summer was like a culture shock."

"I know, right?" she laughed. "Sometimes I walk out my door and still expect to find pavement and sidewalks."

"Well, anyway, do you mind if I ask why you're going to the nursery?" Despite his better judgement, he skirted the edge of his garden and strode up to her car.

"Oh, I'm here to pick up a friend. He just started working here—you know Isaac?"

Stiles nodded. "Isaac? Yeah, I know him, he's a pretty cool guy!"

She nodded and continued. "He really is. To tell the truth, normally someone else does this, but the guy's car crapped out so I volunteered. Hah, _bad_ idea."

"Just out of curiosity, 'the guy' wouldn't happen to be named 'Scott,' would he?"

"Wow you know Scott, too?"

"Yeah, they both stopped by just the other day," Stiles hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "Got to have a decent conversation that didn't involve flowers."

"Wait," she began to snap her fingers in agitation, eyes wide. "Wait, I think they mentioned you. Said your name started with S-something. Steve?"

"Stiles," he corrected before shifting his weight to his back leg. "I'd shake your hand or something, but I've been elbows-deep in soil all afternoon."

To his consternation, she shot him another sharp grin, and reached out the window with her right arm. "A little dirt never hurt anyone. Hi, I'm Erica. The boys have told me so much about you." With the way she simpered over the last part, Stiles wasn't sure if she was joking or not.

He took her hand anyway. "It's nice to meet you. Isaac hasn't said anything about you, specifically, but in his defense he's twenty-one and I've hardly seen him since his interview. He did speak pretty fondly of his friends en masse, though. But having met you officially I daresay you are too lovely to describe and that must be why he didn't mention you."

Holy god, where the hell did that come from?! About three seconds ago he was a blathering idiot.

"So, is the nursery very far?"

He'd actually forgotten what she was here for. "Huh? No, it's just up the driveway past the bridge." He pointed further into the gloom, down the tunnel of trees.

"Great, well, thanks, Stiles," she grinned at him, and made as if to go.

He didn't know what possessed him to blurt out what he said next, but he did anyway. "No problem. And if you ever want someone to show you around, you know where to find me."

"I'll keep that in mind." She winked, before driving off.

Stiles stood still for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened. On the one hand, she didn't have his number, so she couldn't just call him on a whim. But she knew where he lived, right? And Isaac knew the house number in case he needed to talk to Stiles about a shift change. It was salvageable.

And what the hell was he thinking? Stiles wasn't a social butterfly; he couldn't afford to be. Drawing close to his employee and his friends was a horrible idea and he honestly knew better. What did he even know about these people? Nothing, if he was being honest. Just some superfluous information about their interests. Certainly no more than a passerby might learn from seemingly random social interaction. Like, at a bar.

He had to focus on the current problem. With furry interlopers...interloping, everyone was suspect. New people were potential flight risks especially when the entire world had written you off as Old World hock. Until they believed in you, and then you were inimically labeled the second coming of Hitler. Because _that's_ fair.

Nevermind Stiles being born this way.

He scowled at his feet, before deciding to distract himself by asking the undead about their spooky sound from beyond the grave. However, when he directed his gaze to the porch, no one was there.

"At least warn a guy before you decide to pull a disappearing act!" he raised his voice to be heard, then consigned himself to refocus on his chores. These plants weren't going to tend themselves.

Ten minutes later, through the hush of the breeze through the canopy, he heard another robust thrum. He settled back on his haunches, suspicions growing and listened as it gained in timbre. He had a hunch about what could make that noise, but it was ridiculous, right? It challenged convention.

Through the trunks a flit of crimson caught his eye and he forced himself to relax. False alarm, there was no need to get excited.  
This time, when the window rolled down, Isaac's was the smiling face he was greeted with. Stiles walked right up this time and ended up leaning in the open passenger window making flirtatious small-talk for several minutes. He invited them inside against his better judgement, but they declined, giving an excuse about having plans. They didn't stay long after and he shrugged it off before retreating into the house to seek a late lunch and gratuitously violent digital entertainment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we're done. Next chapter: the confrontation we've been waiting for. It's all very dramatic, I know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get ready to rummmmmmmble!

Thomas came face-to-face with one of the wolves. Well, more like face-to-blur. From what Stiles could glean from his frantic and panicked narrative, Thomas had been on patrol when he saw glowing eyes. Then he was passed through, which was all he would say before going stubbornly silent. Stiles couldn't even get him to spill about the intent of the wolf, which only made him assume the worst: these werewolves were out for blood.

Thomas was the straw that broke the camel's back. In fact, Stiles had to wrestle with the impulse to go charging off into the woods half-cocked and fully loaded. The concept of repaying the horrific slight to his houseguest, who Stiles was fairly sure was visible to most supernatural things, 'roided-up mutts included, with several lead slugs to the face was damn tempting. He couldn't wait until he had a foolproof game plan any more. If they were getting to the point where they didn't hesitate to rush the ghosts, then what was stopping them from trying the house?

Stiles left the ghost to the care of the others and descended the basement steps. He normally abhorred using his abilities to compel souls to do his bidding. Shuffling obnoxious ghosts around and defending his breakables from spectral fits was one thing. Calling up a soul and stuffing it into a body to do his dirty work was a whole other ball park. Sadly, it had been a necessity twice before, so he had experience and he had back-ups in place to counteract the lack of corpses he had to work with. Summoning had been tricky to master, but well worth it in the long run.

In a hidden sub-basement, Stiles lit two matches and tossed one each onto two separate circles painted onto the floor. They each burst into flame which traced the lines and runes before spreading inwards to fill the entire circle. Sparks and embers flew and crackled where they were caught on the air. Slowly but surely the frequency increased until a flurry of sparks twirled and formed a shape in the center of each circle. The shapes solidified until they formed two creatures with pale, stitched-together skin that darkened at the ends of each of their limbs. They vaguely resembled humans but walked on four legs and had long, whip-like tails. Their heads were smooth and featureless except for formless slashes that were lined with teeth from which they whined and lowed.

He smiled bitterly, before tying them to his intent and beckoning for them to follow him up and through the house to the back porch. On the way, Stiles activated the wards and passed out instructions. In the waistline of his jeans he'd stuffed his Beretta M9. A knife waited in a back pocket, as well as a few other things he thought he would need. The two creatures, which he had custom-made based on the concept of a familiar-ghoul, trotted along eagerly, likely smelling his excitement. Stiles walked out a few yards into the recently-mown back yard and drew his knife. With quick, efficient strokes, he etched a small but serviceable barrier circle into the grass. Using the tie to his familiars, he set them to wait outside the barrier and activated it. When he was sure it was operational, he sat cross-legged to wait. The familiars sat back on their haunches and hissed softly back and forth.

The wolves had to still be nearby. They would probably see him here and come to investigate. Good, he had some shit to say.

Five minutes passed before Stiles had to do something to occupy his hands so he pulled out the gun and began to unload and check it. He didn't go as far as field-stripping it, mainly because he needed to be able to load and shoot on a moment's notice. Halfway through his third round with it, both familiars growled and stood. Stiles grinned to himself as he slid the magazine home and cocked it then held the gun up to sight down its length into the woods beyond. It was a familiar weight in his hand, which he needed dearly when his eye caught on a man about his height, wearing dark, plain clothes. The most notable thing about him was his leather jacket, and his stunningly violent expression. That was all Stiles could make out in the dim light of the porch lanterns.

The man's scowl was enough to prompt Stiles to stand, but he kept a ready grip on the gun where he left it hanging at his side. One of the familiars shifted its weight but they both stayed close as he commanded. The man didn't make any move Stiles could see, but a cue must have been given because from out of the trees, more people came forward to flank him. Stiles fought off the urge to swallow and counted them. There were eight, including the first guy, who looked like a rain cloud had eaten his face. Only the girl with dark hair was armed and she carried a crossbow. The rest were all finding other ways to occupy their arms; crossing them, stuffing them into their pockets, or, in one or two cases, fidgeting. Stiles couldn't see much about their expressions in all the gloom. Maybe he should do something about it.

He took his free hand and fisted it loosely until a tunnel formed and threaded through his fingers. Satisfied, Stiles drew on his power, and blew it out through the fist. From the other side emerged an orb of brightly glowing light no larger than a golf ball. It drifted away from him on his gentle breath of triumph until he reached out and plucked it from the air. Pleased despite the humorless situation, he chuckled, then gently tossed it above his head within the barrier and nailed it into place ten feet in the air. The wolves all seemed to take that as a signal because they began to move forward across the lawn, much to his chagrin. This was going to be exciting, to say the least.

Both of the familiars reacted to his nervousness and their movements by growling, and pacing in a conjoined semi-circle facing away from the house. They kept their front ends towards the wolves who fanned out in a loose arch and eyed the two creatures warily. Well, everyone but the grumpy one did. He glared pointedly at Stiles like he had somehow done him a grave personal injustice. Stiles, to his credit, made himself look away to catalog faces and potential weaknesses to manipulate. For someone who spent most of his time divided between flowers, the deceased, and the arcane, he was very good at reading people. What he saw threw him for a loop.

"Scott?! Isaac! What- Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" he blurted thoughtlessly. "You're _werewolves? Erica, too?!"_

"Um, yeah," Scott scuffed a foot sheepishly, refusing to meet Stiles' gaze.

At the same time he spoke, Isaac managed to whisper an equally guilty "hi Stiles." The grumpy guy made a low inhuman noise and both fell silent and shrank away from Stiles. Clearly these wolves deferred to him. Maybe he was the alpha? Stiles opted for snagging himself more processing time.

"So, what, was this all pre-meditated? Did you seriously apply at the nursery to plan a hit? Dude, why the hell didn't you just try your luck during the interview? Or when any of you came to visit!" A horrible thought occurred to him. The familiars whined. "Was that you in the woods when I ran into the tree?"

Several of them snickered or made complex faces Stiles recognized as them trying to hold in their laughter. He glared, which the familiars mirrored with noise and menace. The alpha responded in kind and immediately the almost feather-light mood sank into something violent and serious and _heavy._ Stiles grunted, and the familiars dug their fingers into the ground. Stiles squeezed the handle of the pistol, hard, then visibly forced himself to relax.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" He asked, forcing his tone to be teasing. "I have work in the morning so I want to get some actual shut-eye tonight."

The smile slid right off his face and he brought the gun up to aim it directly at the alpha's face. He gave the guy props for barely flinching, but not much, in light of the lycanthropy revelation. The other wolves, however, seemed surprised and confused, as well as distressed.

"Stiles, what are you doing?" Isaac asked, alarmed. A few others cried out things like "whoa, calm down" and "holy shit."

Stiles scoffed. "What does it look like? I'm making show. Clearly we know all about each other, right? Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not going to let you kill me just because of what I am. I'm giving you one chance to walk away and keep your mouths shut about what happened here. Take it, or suffer the consequences."

This time it was Scott who spoke. _"Kill_ you? Who said anything about killing you?"

Stiles pressed his lips together. "No need to when you stalk me on my own property, terrorize my houseguests, and bring a war party to meet me. That all pretty much speaks for itself."

"Perhaps," the red-headed girl with the crossbow spoke for the first time. A boy with blonde hair shifted closer when Stiles looked at her over the line of his arm. "There has been a misunderstanding."

Stiles narrowed his eyes but tilted his head to signal they should go on. The dark-skinned one, a guy stepped forward. His gaze was baleful and his voice was inflectionless. "We weren't stalking you, we were scoping you out. We'd heard about someone really powerful in this area but we didn't know much of anything else. We looked around and you fit the bill for someone with something to hide, so we patrolled the property to observe you."

"But why were you looking for me?"

No one seemed to want to say anything, and Stiles was about to start antagonizing the still-silent alpha into speaking when one of the ones who'd been silently hovering to the back beat him to it.

"I think it's fairly obvious; we need your help." Stiles turned on the speaker, a man, and was about to retort when he recognized him. His eyes widened and his lips pulled back into a mirthless grin before his arm swung around and he pulled the trigger.

 

Things turned to hell fast, faster than it took his ears to stop ringing. Stiles cursed his idiocy for forgetting earplugs. Sure, snag not one but two books of matches, but lapse about protective eyewear. He felt like a gun-ignorant schmuck. And he couldn't even tell if he'd landed the shot. As soon as he had pulled the trigger, both familiars had begun to advance on the man— _Peter,_ that was his name—practically roaring his outrage. The girl with the crossbow had begun to mumble something low under the ensuing racket which he took to be a counter spell of some sort meant to weaken his barrier, based on the unpleasant sensation of it faltering, like a guttering candle. Between Isaac yelling at him to "call them off," Erica throwing herself at the barrier only to be zapped with serious repelling energy, the blonde boy shifting protectively in front of bow girl, and everyone else throwing themselves into defense formations, Stiles was having a hard time keeping everything straight. He decided to put a stop to bow girl's racket, to start with.

Stiles let the arm holding the pistol drop, his free hand lifting until it pointed at her, turned to the side, hand curled loosely. He focused energy to his hand, re-imagined it's purpose, then constricted it into a gentle fist. Sure, he was going to kill Peter as the start of his payback for everything, but that didn't mean he couldn't piece together reason or exhibit mercy. He severed the flow of words, but not the flow of air, grimacing apologetically as she coughed, from shock, then tried to speak only to mouth something shapeless before ceasing. Nothing left her mouth, but as the caster, Stiles knew what she wanted to say, as if she were speaking into his ear.

The blonde boy looked panicked and stricken. Surprisingly not panic-stricken, though. "Lydia? Lydia!"

_Jackson! Help!_ She tried to say, all the while he fixed his gaze on Stiles, drinking in his stance. Rage colored his features and Stiles decided to head off any impending stupidity he was about to give in to right then and there.

"Relax, Jackson, I just shut her voice off. I'll fix it when everything's straightened out. But for now, sorry Lydia." He tried to smile for her sake but somehow he felt like he had failed. He rolled his hand until it wasn't a fist but instead the pads of the index and thumb were pinched together, then drew it horizontally to the side to pantomime a zipper before releasing it. "This will keep the spell in place without me having to waste a whole hand on it. Now."

Stiles squeezed the handle of the pistol again for comfort and turned his attention to everything else. Isaac was watching, a weird and upsetting expression on his face, Erica was still sprawled motionless across the grass while Peter, the alpha, Scott, and the black guy huddled facing outward toward the familiars as they circled, hissing. Isaac followed his gaze and he cringed.

"What are they?" He asked out loud.

"Constructs," Stiles answered without thinking. "They're fake beings I made and animated with the souls of serial killers."

"You _what?"_ the alpha blurted out, flashing him a look that was two parts incredulous, one part murderous, and one part glowing red eyes. It unnerved Stiles, enough to draw the familiars back to the edge of his barrier. Isaac edged away nervously when they got close. He shrugged, but refused to drop the alpha's gaze.

"It wasn't fun, let me tell you. I don't think I could have done a better job if I _hadn't_ opted out of Anatomy classes in college." Stiles shrugged, unaware that he was punctuating each word with a shake of the gun hanging at his side.

"I needed something more flexible than ghouls, but also easier to control. So I took the memories from animal spirits and built personalities and mannerisms, and I powered them with a few assholes' souls," he replied evenly. "The fabricated personalities make them behave like guard dogs. They latch onto my intent for their orders, and the souls animate them and give them some of their basic knowledge about killing. They don't need to eat, but they like to, and they get tactile if I get emotional. If I felt safe enough to drop the barrier, you'd see it, but, well."

"Who gives a shit! Fix Lydia right now or-"

"Or what, Jackson? You'll run at the barrier like your packmate did?" Stiles couldn't help the sneer as he retorted and gestured in Erica's direction. "Lydia is and will be fine. I said I'd turn her voice on when this whole...thing...was over, and I will. Take a chill pill."

_Wait, how did he know Jackson's name?_ Lydia asked while the others shifted. Scott moved closer to Isaac, while the black guy all but ran towards Lydia.

Stiles raised an eyebrow at Lydia, amazed that she was still trying to speak when she knew better. "Because, Lydia, you told me it." At her confused and perturbed look he rolled his eyes.

"Told you what?"

Stiles turned back to Isaac, just remembering that he was there and that he had said that out loud. He forced his mouth to close and grinned coquettishly. "Sorry, trade secret."

Lydia made a fairly obvious gesture to continue, movements sharp with unfocused energy. She looked pissed, but determined. Stiles cleared his throat, and looked away. His attention settled on Peter, briefly, but the view only pissed him off. The same applied to Scott and Isaac. Looking at Erica and the black guy made something in his gut clench, beside guilt for her condition, which only left the alpha.

"Some charm you've got," he muttered. "Your methods could use some work. Stalking isn't flattering you know. I would have been happy with some normal wine-and-dining. Dinner, going to see a movie, drinks. All infinitely more acceptable ways to get to know someone."

The alpha's expression darkened and Stiles grinned, because at least it was a direct reaction, right? He could toy with this guy who unnerved him so much. It gave him a chance at equal footing.

"Still as capricious as ever, I see," Peter commented. He scrutinized his nails evenly, like Stiles' reaction was inconsequential.

"You shut up," Stiles hissed. "The last time I saw you I was planning on sending your ass straight to hell. The last thing you want to do is tempt me to finish what I started."

"Oh, but Stiles, I think that's a great idea," Peter placed a hand on his chest, mouth open in a mock-innocent manner, like a dithering maiden after being proposed to.

"Son of a-"

"Hey! Whoa! We get it, Peter's an ass," Scott stepped forward and turned to insinuate himself between them without actually coming within range of the incensed familiars. He also kept his distance from the former ghost, so Stiles noticed. He held a hand palm-out towards each of them in a classic "back off" stance. "Can we maybe try to focus here? Stiles is right; it's getting late."

Stiles stepped back, a sign of good faith, laced his fingers together behind his head, and grinned cheekily. "Oh, I dunno, I'm actually pretty comfortable. Got my barrier and guard dogs, and plenty of soft grass to stretch out on. I could totally sleep out here tonight."

_"So_ not the point," Scott groaned. "Look, Peter wasn't lying. We really came here to ask for your help. We don't want to kill you, I promise."

"Mhmm, sure, I believe that. No, really, scout's honor and all that." Stiles rolled his eyes. "What if I were to say no?"

"Then we'll make you help us," the alpha responded gruffly, like that was a perfectly acceptable thing to do.

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him and smiled, all sarcasm. "And _that,_ ladies and gentlemen, is why the barrier is still up."

From the ground, Erica groaned, which broke everyone out of the exchange and had them turning around, as if just realizing she was there. Stiles winced and looked down at his shoes as the black guy carefully levered her into a sitting position which caused her to sob in pain. Advanced healing factor aside, she looked like she'd just gotten her ass kicked. Bruises fanned across her skin, already yellowing, one of her eyes was blackened, and her nose had just stopped bleeding. Stiles wouldn't be surprised if a few bones had been broken.

"Tell me again what you plan on doing if I say no? That's what happens if you take a run at my barrier, and that's at the low setting. The circle itself is arcane in origin and used as a killing barrier. I toned it down to parley with you, but I can easily reset it without dropping or leaving it. You can't touch me, you can't spell me, you can't kill my familiars, and last but not least, I have home field advantage.

"Exactly how do you plan to make me do anything?"

"We could wait you out. You're gonna have to eat or rest sometime," Jackson offered, eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Yeah but before that happens, I'll have plenty of time to figure out a way to incapacitate you so I can go inside," Stiles told him. "I think it's established that I know what I'm doing, after all that's why you came looking for me, despite having Lydia."

"Okay so maybe 'make' isn't the right word to use," Isaac conceded. Stiles huffed a cynical laugh and muttered "more like definitely" to himself. The alpha growled at the beta, but he merely moved out of striking range and kept going, ignoring Stiles' comment. "Is there any way we can change your mind?"

"Nope."

"Can we at least ask why?"

"Sure. Because I don't trust anyone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I promise things will start to make a lot more sense as Stiles interacts with the wolves. In the meantime, something happened in Stiles' past to make him familiar with the less pleasant parts of his abilities, and how to defend himself, and all of his relatives are dead. Just something to chew on if you aren't sure of why he reacted this way.
> 
> In the meantime, I don't think I've ever been this unsure of my work. I'm gonna try to work my way back to classic Stiles goofiness, but you should know he's different for a reason. Be patient for the reveal?
> 
> Ayyo, find me at ficcyshit.tumblr.com.
> 
> (Anyone want to reteach me how links work on this dumb site? I seem to have forgotten some vital section of the code.)
> 
> See you next Monday when Stiles and I commiserate and retract our decisions together.


	5. Pieces Engendered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter titles are starting to make even less sense.

It hurt to watch Peter walk away unscathed. The alpha had grunted once, which didn't mean anything to Stiles. But the rest of them seemed to take as their cue to go. Stiles was stunned by both the ease and speed that they left, even Lydia, who was still silenced. In fact, he forgot to remind them because he was so shocked. It seemed way too simple to him that they had accepted his decision so easily. He waited for over an hour for some sort of surprise attack, but none came. With a disbelieving sigh, he deactivated the barrier, snuffed out his little experimental witch-light thankfully without exploding it on accident, and retreated to the house, letting himself into its wards with ease. The ghosts swarmed him, demanding a play-by-play but he shook them off, resealed both familiars, and retired for the night after reviewing the house's security.

One thing Stiles couldn't dislodge from his thoughts was the defeated looks on the werewolves' faces as they left. They seemed too upset for his refusal to have been a small thing to them. More likely they had been planning to ask for something important, which in turn meant big and difficult, and probably life-threatening. He supposed he should be glad he had been operating on basic instincts, without room for compassion. Otherwise he might have agreed only to lose his life for people he didn't know, let alone trust. He didn't trust anyone, not when it mattered, but the point still stood. Still, his gut clenched when he remembered how they had looked. Their eyes had been filled with a sort of desperation mixed with sorrow. They were condemned eyes. He can't shake the soft touch of guilt that settles on everything.

The next day Stiles stayed at the house. He got a call warning him that Isaac's taken a few days of unpaid leave, which he saw coming but doesn't take the edge off the niggling concern he'd begun to cultivate despite all of his efforts to keep his hands clean. The stress alone last night had him sticking his neck out and acting a part but now his returns to the casual, everyday jabs of his housemates are bitter. He shut himself up in the study to rush through the day's office work, then he took the rest of the afternoon to tend to his personal garden and tidy the house. No balls of fur and claws burst out of the woods to attack him, though he fully-expected it given Peter's involvement.

Lucinda and the others catch on fast, except for Boris who's too old and muddled to care. Stiles doesn't eat, which isn't that unusual for him, but it's the first time in a long time that he hadn't simply forgotten because he was busy working on something. No, this time he just doesn't have an appetite. By five that evening, he's had an epiphany about his behavior and he hates it. He decides that while he may not be willing to eat his discomfort, he can at least drink it. He also decides there's more value in spending the evening drunk and studying. So he pours over part of his dusty old spell book collection and reacquaints himself with component magic. 

What he did in the backyard had been dangerous and stupid. Relying too much on raw intent to handle a situation was tricky and he was lucky nothing had gone spectacularly wrong like it had the potential to. Using intent to handle the ghosts and their bullshit was one thing because it was literally the only way to interact with them. Only three spells that Stiles knew of were designed to affect spirits, since they were really just bundles of raw energy. It made what he could do all the more special, especially since it was the crux of his power, like a lodestone in a magnetic field. But he'd been lucky his spells had worked, instead of getting blown off-kilter by a stray thought. Since he was certifiably ADHD and prone to having to wrangle his own head into order—case in point: he couldn't get the damn alpha out of his thoughts, for _whatever_ reason—, it was nothing short of a miracle.

 

It's the loud, insistent pounding noise that gets him. There's pressure behind his eyes and his mouth and throat feel like he chugged bleach. Actually, scratch that, he feels like he did shots of lava. The flavor in his mouth is overwhelming and he gags on principle. Gagging only makes the burn flare up and he hazily comes to the conclusion to add hornet stings to the description. Stiles makes the mistake to voice his discomfort like anything at all that is alive, then immediately regrets it. He now knows it is possible for your own voice vibrating through your head to be painful instead of soothing. Stiles tries to burrow away from the pain by mashing his face into something, ideally whatever he's lying on. He read something about that instinct, but right now even thoughts hurt.

Smooth, cool material of some sort pushes into his face and he barely refrains from sighing in relief. That would only ruin the moment. He opens his eyes to try to make better sense of what basically is sensory overload but which feels like a form of punishment straight out of hell. It's a bad idea. Everything is a bad idea. This is a bad idea, whatever this is. At least Stiles knows enough to know this whole situation could have been avoided. He doesn't know how he knows anything but he decides he is still pretty damn curious. Like a moth to flame.

Stiles has to squint so hard that everything is blur soup, and it hurts, but he begins to work out that he can eventually open his eyes and he is also sprawled out on his stomach on the living room couch. The leather smells sour, like margarita salt and gin. He feels a bit gross, so it's probable that he was sweating. Stiles rolls over to escape the smell and what it's doing to his stomach, and catches sight of the bottle. He drank an entire bottle of Jack Daniels last night. Right from the source if the lack of a shot glass is anything to go by. Stiles is just realizing that maybe he's despicable when the pounding starts back up.

The sound is dampened like it's being made against wood. It's coming from the front of the house. It also makes his head throb agonizingly. Last Stiles checked, the wards were still in place, but somehow someone got onto the porch and knocked on the door. He knows that that is only possible if they mean no harm. That's the only reason why he drags himself upright and staggers to the door. In retrospect he thinks he should have crawled upstairs instead because who's come to call isn't exactly someone he wants to see.

"Stiles!" Isaac is as chipper and loud as a goddamn child. Stiles shushes him, though it comes out as more of a hiss, and merely pushes the rawest approximation of how shitty and upset he feels into his expression before turning it on the wolf. It's enough to make him shrink back. "Sorry."

Stiles doesn't bother to reply. He's too busy hating life for dumping this confrontation on him mid-whiskey hangover. Oddly enough he feels more inclined to just shut the door in Isaac's face than actually go out of his way to attack. He's too relaxed to be able to convince himself he really doesn't trust the wolf, which just adds disappointment to the shit stew churning in his gut and burning out his brain. Instead of giving even a rough facsimile of a response, he glares balefully and waits.

Isaac seems to realize he won't get more acknowledgement from Stiles than hungover bitchfaces so he clears his throat and forges on. What a brave little shit. "I hoped you would be here. Can we, maybe, talk?"

Stiles grunts. "We 'lready 're."

Isaac, to his credit, doesn't bat an eye. "Yeah, but could we maybe do it without a door between us? Maybe in actual chairs? Like we did that night in your kitchen."

Stiles scowls at the memory because it's already been tainted with distrust and false camaraderie. He doesn't owe Isaac anything, really. This is a shit situation and he should just close the door and go get a few waters before heading upstairs to recuperate. He starts to do just that but Isaac's friggin' determined. He cries out a very cliché "wait" just as the door is nearly shut. Stiles knows the drill all too well, but hearing that desperation firsthand is so much different than it is on television or in movies. Despite his every pore screaming at him to make the cut, he pulls the door open enough to meet Isaac's gaze. He doesn't, though, instead closing his eyes against the burn and raising both eyebrows in silent invitation.

"Look, I know you have every reason not to trust me, but I promise I'm harmless," he began without hesitation. "I just really need to talk to you. No one else can really help."

If Stiles hadn't opened his eyes, he might have gotten away with stonewalling the guy. He might be lying in bed nursing a bottle of water. It was the eyes that got him. He let Isaac in, walked into the kitchen on unsteady legs, and immediately went to slump defeatedly at the table. He was so tired and hungover that he couldn't think of a means to defend himself, or even bring himself to care that he was defenseless.

"You look like someone ran you over," Isaac observed, hovering.

Stiles managed to roll his head sideways from where it rested on the pillow of his arms crossed on the table top and peer up at him. "Feel like't."

"You smell like a bar."

Stiles groaned and let his head roll back so his face was shielded from light. "'Cause I drank a bottle of whiskey las' nigh'."

Isaac inhaled sharply in sympathy. He didn't say anything, but he began to shuffle around. Stiles just hoped he would make it quick and painless. Isaac didn't and Stiles was far too unconcerned to track his movements by sound. He drifted, wishing for sleep. He was jolted into focus when something cold and smooth pressed against his cheek. Stiles jumped which would have been disastrous if the cold object had been a blade. Instead he was presented with a bottle of water and a darkened room.

A traitorous sigh of content escaped him before he could wrap his brain around what was happening. From the look on Isaac's face, the guy found his obvious relief amusing. Stiles, being hungover, angry, and confused, felt the compunction to frown. Isaac settled in the seat directly across from him, reached over, and opened one of the bottles. Disappointment slithered through Stiles' gut briefly, observing pleasantries with the nausea in residence, when he thought Isaac was going to take one of the bottles from him, but it was soothed over by confusion and gratefulness when the werewolf just pushed the open water towards him. The first bottle felt amazing against his temple, while the second worked wonders on his throat, mainly by freezing any other sensation away.

He considers the fact that he's still very much alive. Isaac could go for the kitchenware—the whole damn room's a makeshift armory, _Jesus, Stiles you're dumb_ —but he has yet to sprout fur or nasty new hardware. His eyes haven't even flickered. Hell, he could actually pass for a real boy if not for his very real presence at the hullabaloo the other night. Granted, Isaac never wolfed-out or anything so he could still be a regular dude, but there's a lot of incriminating evidence stacked against him. Now that the adrenaline's gone, Stiles has managed to recall some of the minor details he noticed, and from there he's begun to theorize.

Starting with the fact that everyone's eyes had flashed at some point during the lawn affair—only the alpha's, Jackson's and Peter's were different from the others'. The only exception was Lydia, who also happened to be the only one armed. He assumed that meant she was either human, or found a way to keep her eyes from flashing although he can't imagine how when his files read that they reflect light involuntarily. And Stiles had had his own experimental version of a golfball-sized sun hanging around, so there's that. More importantly, glowing eyes is reasonably suspicious enough to cast all the others in the "likely werewolf" category, without the implied admission from Scott and Isaac. And since no one else was visibly armed, he's going to assume they didn't need the insurance.

There was also a lot of inhuman vocalizations and acrobatics which all point to Stiles feeling wonderfully vindicated, upon retrospect, for being so concerned about taking precautions before meeting up with them.

A whole list of things go into hardening Stiles' theories about what Isaac and his friends are, and it all matches up shockingly well. There were clear signs of athleticism, teamwork, eye fireworks, and an actual pack hierarchy, or at least the beginnings of one. In other words, short of actually seeing one of them transform, Stiles was almost dead certain. And feeling very smug about getting it right so far.

Again, Isaac didn't make any moves to attack and Stiles began to think the detail that they needed him might actually hold water. He certainly wasn't giving off any violent vibes or he'd have set off the array set into the very foundations. Since Stiles hadn't warned him—of course not; most of its effectiveness lay in actually catching them in the act—they were left three options. Either, one, Lydia had somehow forewarned him, or two, he could actually sense the spell. Which would be...actually pretty cool. The last option was that Isaac legitimately came in peace. The more Stiles thought of it the more pointed his headache got.

When Isaac still hadn't said anything and the second water was almost empty, Stiles let himself break the silence. "So? What do you want to talk about, wolf boy?"

Isaac grimaced, though Stiles couldn't say why specifically. He thought the werewolf would refuse to answer, but within seconds it was like a floodgate opened up. "Derek's already making plans to move on. Since you embarrassed the hell out of us the other night, he's already looking for others to ask. Most of us are supposed to be packing and concluding our business. Y'know, quitting jobs and paying bills. I'm supposed to resign today. The problem is that I don't want to. I really like my job and my life right now and I don't want to roam the country looking for someone who can help us but its not like I can really talk to the others. Lydia's locked herself into her room and won't talk to anyone. Not even Jackson. Scott's missing Allison almost too much to function, Boyd and Erica stopped being fun to hang out with when they got together, and no one likes Peter so I-"

"Holy shit, slow down," Stiles groaned as the headache returned full force, pushing his fingertips into his temples to create a counterpoint of pressure. "I have no idea who you're talking about, remember? I only know some of your names and some generic facts about werewolves. That doesn't make me an expert."

"Yeah but didn't you find out Jackson and Lydia's names the other night? By the way, how did you do that?"

"Kinda hard to miss when you all start addressing each other feet from me," Stiles supplied drily.

"Okay, but no one said Jackson's name and then poof! you knew it."

"Lydia tried to say it, but as the caster, I was the only one who heard her."

"You mean what you did to her voice?"

"Yep. It's standard to that kind of magic. Like a law of equivalence, except it's more like no matter how powerful the spell, some form of the original will exist no matter what. That's why magic that messes with free will like love spells breaks so much."

"Umm, cool."

Stiles let him puzzle that over for a moment before urging him on. "So, you're supposed to move on, but you don't want to, right?" Isaac nodded. "And you can't really talk to anyone because everyone's doing their own thing." The next nod was hesitant. "Have you considered talking to your alpha? Y'know, actually telling him you're not okay with it."

"Derek? No way. He'd kill me for even thinking of it." Isaac seemed stricken.

 _So his name is Derek._ Stiles' expression darkened with disapproval. "Yeah, he kinda seemed like that kind of guy. Hey, what exactly is his problem?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure he would have ripped my face off if I had taken down the barrier." Really? Did Isaac really not notice?"

"Oh, he's just eternally angry. It's nothing personal."

"Right." Stiles hid his disbelief by draining the first water and starting on the second. "Hey so what exactly do you guys need help with?"

Isaac's face shut down faster than Stiles would have thought possible. That was what revived Stiles' fight or flight response that had dissolved in the time elapsed since the confrontation. For the first time since that night, he felt himself tensing. A weird shudder went through the house, and then Lucinda was standing, winded, in the center of the room.

"Dammit, Stiles! I hate when you do that!"

Isaac jumped, rounding on the interruption like prey cornered. He looked like he was prepared to climb over the back of his chair to get to her. "Whoa my god! What the hell?"

Stiles sat upright in his chair and held his hands out placatingly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to! Isaac, it's okay, she's dead!"

"Oh, well that's a lovely way to put it," Lucinda snipped.

Stiles just cringed. "What? It's true? When have I ever sugar-coated shit like that?" When he noticed Isaac still tensed, watching the discussion raptly, he snapped a little. "Isaac, for fuck's sake, relax. She's incorporeal. She can't directly hurt you and nothing she can do will last long what with your wolf voodoo."

"And what about you?" He asked, voice oddly subdued for a question he was no doubt dying to know the answer to.

Stiles slouched and crossed his arms, tilted his head just so, and wore his unimpressed expression with pride. "I can kill you five ways to Sunday, not including the wards on the house. But I won't if you come in peace. Which I'm sure you already know or why would you be here, in the 'enemy's _lair_?'" He uncrossed his arms briefly to wiggle his fingers when he said lair, just to provide some much-needed sarcasm.

Isaac seemed to mull that over, running and drumming his fingers over the top of the table. Lucinda had long since huffed off. Stiles let him, opting to rise and putter around lazily, searching the fridge for acceptable foodstuffs. And by "acceptable foodstuffs" he meant liquids. No way in hell was he up for digesting right now. He didn't go for coffee, though, because it had never sat well with him. Not only did it exacerbate his ADHD, but it made him almost disturbingly ill. That said, he still wanted to take away the taste and beat some energy back into his blood, so he snagged a can of soda and another water for himself, and a sports drink for Isaac, without bothering to ask. He accepted it readily, though, if a little distracted and withdrawn.

"Okay now that's just sad," Stiles said as he rejoined him. "I point out my obvious badassery and suddenly I'm diseased, huh?"

"Ah! No-"

"What, afraid I'll zap you with a snap of my fingers if you don't placate me?"

"Stiles-"

"Oh, no no no no no, don't you 'Stiles' me, I know when-"

 _"I'm not afraid of you, okay?"_ Isaac barked. He sounded pretty canine, too.

Stiles waited until he had Isaac's attention before grinning, slow and stupid and impossibly wide.

"God, you really are a werewolf," Stiles reveled, more to himself, before cutting off Isaac's hot-headed response. "In that case, trust me a little. Tell me what you need. I can see if I can do anything, then."

"It's not that easy," Isaac admitted. "Derek-"

Stiles' expression darkened, for the second time in minutes. Of course the problem led back this Derek fellow. It seemed like it always invariably did with this pack.

"Derek sounds like a pretty shitty alpha, if you ask me," he interrupted. "He expects me to stick my neck out for a bunch of young, violent strangers, after his brilliant plan to flaunt his overall creep factor like a schmoozing car salesman, and he has the gall to deny me answers? Nuh-uh, fuck that.

"I don't work that way, and I can't think of a damn thing outside of kids' movies that does. So here's what's gonna happen: you're going to give your alpha a message—god, I sound like a Sopranos rerun. You're gonna tell him what I said here, and you're gonna tell him that I demand an explanation before I consider doing anything."

Stiles felt kind of incensed by the end of his rant. It made him want to do something daring and manly, to emphasize his point. So he slammed back about half of his soda and chased it's acidic burn with conciliary agua.

"That's great and all, though I'm not sure if he'll actually answer you, but where would we be able to meet up?" Isaac asked.

"Here, of course. What? Don't give me that look, I hold awesome barbecues. Actually, that's a lie, I've never held one before. But I wasn't always a shut-in and I watched _Grill Masters_ once so it can't be all that hard. So long as you all come under a banner of peace, you'll be fine," Stiles answered readily, if a little self-important. "I'll even provide all the food. Say, the fire pit the night after tomorrow. At seven, sharp."

He refrained from pointing imperiously at Isaac and proclaiming a dire "be there." Barely.

Isaac left soon after, somehow impossibly more happy than he'd been when he'd shown up. Probably because he thought this was a cut-and-dried thing and he wouldn't have to pack up and shove off as per _Derek's_ orders. Somehow that name just felt better when uttered scathingly. Stiles had his suspicions about the relative speed with which Isaac left, all of which were made more pointed when he'd realized what he'd done. He'd caved. He'd let weakness and booze and fucking _Isaac Lahey_ cloud his judgement and the result had been...agreeing to talk about it. Okay. It was still salvageable. He could still turn them down, retain his dignity and pride as someone with good sense. But...still-

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, look. Another chapter. We're on the last step before we hit the shallow end so hold on to your knickers. But be glad Stiles is still incredibly untrusting of the pack. It's a sign of a healthy sense of self-preservation.
> 
> Tune in next week for: *chuckles grimly* awkwardly tense barbecues.

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that I wrote this bastard on my iPhone. Yes, all of it. My thumbs are eternally sore.
> 
> Ask your questions! Like this! Show me some love, this fic has been a bit of a bitch so far, and I don't want to flop during my fandom debut. [My Tumblr](ficcyshit.tumblr.com) is open for your curiosity.
> 
> **EDIT: For some reason the links aren't working. I'm working on it. In the meantime, I am ficcyshit on tumblr. You can find story discussions at ficcyshit.tumblr.com/tagged/the-necrofiles. Thanks for your patience.**


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